


What Hath Night To Do With Sleep? [WIP]

by KindListener



Category: Friday the 13th Series (Movies), Friday the 13th: The Game (Video Game)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Porn With Plot, Self-Indulgent, Self-Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:35:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25826008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KindListener/pseuds/KindListener
Summary: Pairing(s):Jason Voorhees x ReaderWarnings:Death, non-con, blood and gore.Word Count:[In progress.]Summary:You've been looking forward to calling to the family holiday cabin at Camp Crystal Lake for a long while. You sigh, breathing in the scent of nature, pine bark and nostalgia. A weekend alone to sit, read, catch up on sleep, listen to music and, Hell, maybe you'll even meet a boy around these parts. After all, it is a Summer at Camp Crystal Lake. What could go wrong during a calming weekend in the woods?
Relationships: Jason Voorhees/You
Comments: 6
Kudos: 74





	What Hath Night To Do With Sleep? [WIP]

**Author's Note:**

> (A gift for myself (for finishing my digital marketing apprenticeship) as well as a gift for MachoJuice! It's a pleasure to be able to write for and interact with such a cool and talented individual! But I hope everyone enjoys the fruits of my labour.
> 
> Using Part 8 (Jason Takes Manhattan) Jason as well as [this dildo](https://www.bondara.co.uk/the-wide-load-monster-dildo-12-inch) for the size and shape of Jason's cock, because we all know he's packin' some heat!)

You've been looking forward to calling to (what used to be) Camp Crystal Lake for a long while. It's been eighteen long, hard months since you started your course and now...it's finally over. You were worried sick over the last exam, an interview no less, but now it's over and you can relax. Granted, you don't have your results but there's nothing you can do about it now. It's out of your hands. You're only staying the weekend as a short reprieve before returning to the city, to the humdrum of office work, of city life. Your folks and your brother had offered to come with but, with the promise of a place of your own fast approaching, you decided that alone would be the best way to spend your time (also to prove to your dad that you wouldn't be completely useless at living on your own). A weekend to sit, read, catch up on sleep, listen to music and, Hell, maybe you'll even meet a boy around these parts. After all, it is a Summer at Camp Crystal Lake.

As you pull up outside of your old granddad's cabin, you sigh, breathing in the scent of nature, pine bark and nostalgia. You remember coming here when you were younger. You can remember a much younger you, your brother, your folks, their folks, all gathered on the pier for a barbecue. Simpler times, you nod to yourself with a rueful smile as you open the door and step out of the car to retrieve your bag from the trunk. With the house keys in the pocket of your jeans and a small suitcase in hand, you head up the stairs to reach the door. There's a kind of silent tension in the air and you take a moment to have a glance around before pulling the house keys from your pocket. Paranoia has never been your friend and never will be but you just have to be wary of the way your head plays tricks on you. Your hand creeps toward the lock, about to insert the key into the door.  
"Boo!!" A blonde swings open the door at lightning speed and jumps at you. You leap back in fright and let out a loud yell before recognising your attacker.  
"... Christian? Is that you?" You ask as he doubles over laughing.  
"You should've seen the look on your face!" He laughs and you shake your head.  
"Did you know I was coming or have you just been camping out in my family's cabin for the last eight years?" You ask, squeezing past him and placing your bag on the couch. "How did you get in anyway?" You ask and his chuckles fade to a sort of fond silence as he follows you into the living room.  
"Your folks left their window unlatched." He explains with a brief chuckle.

Christian lived (and you suppose he still lives) around these parts. This cabin used to belong to his folks before your family offered to buy it off them. It must've helped the sale that you, your brother, Christian, Noah (his older brother) and Elijah (his younger brother) became the best of friends the first time your family rented out the cabin, back when you were only about seven. You were made of a lot less neurosis back then and made friends really easily which, you suppose, deteriorated in the long run.

"You -- umm... -- hear about the killin's earlier in the year?" Christian asks, carding a hand through his blonde hair awkwardly.  
"No. There's been killings?" Your eyes widen and he nods.  
"Yeah. Just on the other side of the lake, too. Bunch of teenagers makin' a racket." Christian's bright blue eyes seem to have darkened over the years and his hair is more of a dirty blonde now, instead of a platinum blonde. It doesn't look like he's had the best of times over the past eight years or so. You can relate with the gut you've gained, the sickly pallid tone to your skin and the dark circles around your eyes. "I've been told to go round all the cabins and warn people who haven't already cancelled their bookin's." He explains and you nod, eyes wide as you pull your bag back into your hand and reach for the car keys.  
"Guess I'll be heading back then." You state but he shakes his head.  
"He's stopped cars headin' out." Christian warns and your brows knit.  
"Then...what am I supposed to do?" You take a seat on the couch and Christian follows, wetting his lips.  
"I'll stay with you, if you want." He offers easily and you nod.  
"I might just take-- Wait a minute." You roll your eyes. "Are you making this up just so you can stay the night?" You accuse, a hint of humour to your voice. It would make sense and it sounds like something he'd do, especially given your welcoming party.  
"Fine, you got me! But I had you for a moment. Jeez, you sure turned into a pussy over these last few years, huh?" He laughs, punching you on the arm softly. You don't adore the language he uses but you've had to put up with it though high-school and then college.  
"I guess."

• • •

After frying up some burgers, you made some fries and serve them up for you and Christian, sitting around the dining table -- that feels oddly big for just the two of you.  
"Have there actually been killings here before?" You ask curiously, popping a chip in your mouth and taking a sip of soda.  
"Yeah but it was, like, in the Eighties so he's probably either dead or moved on by now. Might've been arrested. Who knows?" Christian shrugs, chowing into his burger. The rain outside is torrential, making the night seemingly even darker. Still the sound is soothing. You eat in silence, occasionally glancing over the table at the thin, rat-like man your friend has become. He looks ill, maybe malnourished. The years have been hard on the two of you, in different ways. You don't see the way his eyes rake up your form as you eat, hands itching for contact with your soft skin.

After dinner, you sit down to watch a movie. The tech in the cabin is a little out of date so the only things you've got in the house are DVDs and a DVD player hooked up to an old-school TV. In the TV cabinet, there are _'Friends'_ and _'Family Guy'_ box-sets that your brother bought, old rom-coms for your mom, sci-fi and historical dramas that your dad brought and... Hm. Where's all of your DVDs? You could swear you brought some, back in the day. Heading to the old room you used to share with your brother, you give everything a once over, spying a portable DVD player in a corner with a stack of DVD boxes.  
"Nice." You murmur to yourself. Having a root around, you come across a bunch of old, Eighties action movies. _'Tango and Cash'_ springs to mind and you nod with a smile. You were probably a little too young to be watching this movie when you were twelve but...whatever, right? You grab the DVD and head back to the living room, where Christian is lounging back on the couch. You slide the disc in and set the movie playing, settling back into the couch cushions.

About an hour or so into the movie, Christian puts his hand on your knee. Gently, you push it off. He puts it back, moving his palm a little further up your thigh.  
"St-Stop." You chuckle nervously and cock your head to the side, trying to be somewhat nice about the whole thing. Besides, he's supposed to be your friend, after all. "Chris, what's gotten into you?" You ask, hurt, as he stands to his full height.  
"It's been so long. Just humour me, yeah?" Suddenly he's straddling your waist as he pins you down, wrists gathered in one of his hands, dipping to press his lips to your throat.  
"Get off!" You snarl, growing angrier. He doesn't respond, choosing instead to roll his hips against yours and you feel him, thick and hard, in his tight, blue jeans.  
"You always were the feisty one." He laughs breathlessly. Nausea bubbles up in your throat as your body launches itself into fight or flight mode. With adrenaline, you throw Christian's body off you just as he tears open your shirt, from the collar halfway down the garment. Rushing to the kitchen just past the sofa, you grab a knife, cornering yourself against the kitchen counter and pointing the blade at him. Your breath comes heavy and fast as he holds up his hands.  
"Get...out..." You breathe but he doesn't move. "I said, get out!" You yell, moving to make a stab at him, only to make him leave. He backs into the door, face angry and scared and... Then he's gone, out into the night, into the rain.

Your heart thumps in your chest, drowning out all else as you rush around the house, making sure to lock every door and window before collapsing in your room, landing on the bed with a strained sob. It's dark, the house is empty, you're all alone. Oh, God... _Oh, God..._

• • •

When you start awake, you're still clutching the knife to your chest, knees drawn in and an arm wrapped around your legs. Your body feels crumpled and cramped from being stuffed in a corner of your bed, against the wall, staying awake for many hours of the night before drifting off. Your bones creak as you try to step off the bed, knife-wielding hand at your side. Your stomach is still turning from the sudden events of the night.

After scouring the house for any sign of Christian, you place your knife down on the table, putting a couple of frozen waffles in the toaster as you sit at the dining table, shaking. Nothing like this has ever happened before. It's shaken you. You're fingers tremble as you reach for your phone. It buzzes in your hands and you jump, dropping it to the table and crying uncontrollably as fear and disgust seep through you, the shock beginning to wear off. You cry for (what feels like) a solid hour, the moon crawling across the sky as you bury your head in your hands, breath wracked with shudders.

_THUMP!_

The sound is slightly muffled but still loud, signifying that it's outside the house, along the porch.  
"Wh-Who's there?!" You yelp, lurching to your feet as you scramble for the knife. The rain is still pouring down in the buckets. "... Chris?" You call, approaching the door with your knife hand extended. You open the windowless door cautiously, ready to defend yourself...but there _really is_ no need.

Christian -- or Christian's body -- is splayed across the porch, cut from the crook of his neck to the bottom of his rib-cage on the opposite side, slicing him in two. The cut is nearly perfect, clean, without signs of much struggle. His viscera spills across the polished pine planks, small whimpers leaving what remains of his throat. He seems to flounder slightly -- fingers still twitching, eyes still moving -- as his lifeblood spurts onto the floor, covering it in a slick of deep crimson. His dirty blonde hair is stained with blood and his face... He... He doesn't have one. His skinless face still moves, face twisted into a horrifying, shrieking expression. Your chest tightens, as if in a vice, as your throat closes off, fear freezing you in place. Who... _What_...did this?

Back. Back into the house. You know it's safe there. You slowly swing closed the door on Christian's nearly-dead body, shakily stepping back...until your back hits something solid and unmoving. Your mouth opens in a silent scream, only a breath hissing from your restricted throat as you slowly turn on your heel. Tall -- more than six foot, maybe seven -- and muscular with discoloured skin. It wears a torn shirt and pants and large boots and...and... It stalks toward you menacingly and all you can think to do is back up against the door, hands trembling so much that you drop the knife with a clatter on the floor.

With your back against the door, the creature (you suppose it would be a him) raises its hand, callused fingers pressed to your jaw as he studies you, closely, carefully. He gently lifts your head, bathing it in warm, watery light. His muscled body is pressed against yours but not in a position that would prevent you from breaking away. He revels in the warmth of your skin, his dirty mask a reminder that you know nothing about the man beneath. His clothes are stained with blood. Christian's blood, you would assume. You don't know whether to kiss him or to run as far away as you can. The unspoken option you unknowingly pick is to stand there, motionless, as he runs his fingers across your shoulders, pressing the front of his mask to your forehead in a kind of attempted kiss, strong arms coiling around your chest to hold you close. His embrace is warm and...comforting, of all things. Leaning into the heat of his body, you take in his scent; earthy, savoury, the tang of iron and a whiff of decay. His body is so strong and solid but his touches are soft and gentle; large, rough hands tightening around your chest and holding you ever closer. Still, the stranger doesn't talk but carries you back to your bedroom as blood begins to creep under the door.

His strength and his protective nature is darling, his shy-stoic silence only endearing you further as he sits on the side of your bed, seating you in his lap. You straddle his muscle-corded thighs, shaking arms thrown haphazardly around his neck as you accept him as your protector. You shiver in his arms and he tightens his grip around you, his hands rubbing soothing circles over your ribs. When he gently pushes you back to sit on his thighs, he notes the way your shirt is torn, exposing your heaving chest as you try to gulp down oxygen. One hand disappears to his side, retrieving the long blade of a blood-spattered machete. Fear sends sparks through your synapses but your body doesn't respond, staying rigid as he brings the blade closer and closer to your abdomen. You suck in a breath, eyes squeezing shut as you feel cold steel against your belly... The knife slides over your stomach and the sound of fibres being cut rings out as he slices through the remainder of your shirt, letting it hang loosely around your chest. When you open your eyes again, he places the machete next to him on the bed, leaning forward to press his mask against your clavicle the sound of his breaths echoing through the mask. His huge hands roam and explore your chest, fingers trailing over the exposed area of your chest. Slowly, your remove your shirt, allowing him better access to more of your body. One of his palms rounds your chest to trace the crests of your shoulder blades with his rough fingertips.

When he feels like he has fully explored your body, for the time being, his hand lowers to your hip, the other cupping your jaw gently. The tip of his thumb traces across the soft, plump flesh of your bottom lip with a single request; *open*. You take the digit between your lips and he seems to let out this muffled groan at the way your tongue feels against his discoloured skin. The pad of his thumb trails over the tips of your teeth, pricking itself on the points of your canines. As your gaze doesn't leave the empty eyes of the mask, the stranger cocks his head to one side. There's what feels like a twitch beneath you, like a monster lurching to life. You raise a hand to his face, fingers inching toward the edge of the mask, curious to find out what lies beneath the mask. Just as you touch the thick plastic of the mask, the hand on your hip moves to firmly wrap around your wrist, holding it still. *No.* He presses your hand, instead, to the top of his shirt buttons where you begin sliding them back through the button holes, slowly exposing his muscular, discoloured chest. His skin is pale with a tint of blue, bruises and scars and open wounds abound on the muscle-corded plains of his chest. The silence allows you to fully enjoy the sound of your fingertips on his skin. Gently, you touch the corners of his angular collarbone, watching his chest fall with a pleasant sigh.

**Author's Note:**

> To be continued...


End file.
